


Burdened Beast

by gesugao



Category: Baldur's Gate, baldur's gate 3
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Blood Drinking, F/M, M/M, Spoilers, Trauma, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 09:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27468907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gesugao/pseuds/gesugao
Summary: The hunger returns. Not for food. Not for blood.For control.An alternate version of Astarion's reveal, focusing on his past and his relationship with Cazador and how that affects his new relationship with the protagonist.Gender-neutral reader, contains spoilers for leaked content relating to Astarion's origin route.
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Reader, Astarion/Charname
Comments: 10
Kudos: 197





	1. night 1

The glowing embers of the campfire slowly begin to die out underneath the dark sky. You sit on your bedroll, directly across from Astarion, as your other two companions sleep soundly on either side of you. In the dim orange glow of the fire, you watch him idly polish a dagger, fingers running over the blunt edge mindlessly. He doesn’t look up at you, his eyes trailed downward. Not even at the knife, but past it. Towards the ground.

“Going to bed soon?” You ask.

“What?” His head snaps up and he stares at you blankly. “Oh, of course. Sure. Didn’t want you to be all alone with the ghoulies and the…bugbears. Whatever’s out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“I can handle a ghoulie or a bugbear if it attacks camp,” you reply with a raise of your eyebrows. “Go to sleep.”

“Is that an order?” Astarion scoffs, but nonetheless sets his dagger aside and settles onto his bedroll. You lay down on yours and turn your back to him, then drift into a soft, restless sleep.

You aren’t sure how many hours have passed since you closed your eyes, but when they open again, the night is inky black and the smell of charcoal no longer fills your nostrils. You sense a presence at the back of your neck, and instinctively swat at the offending presence with your hand. You strike flesh and hear a quick curse uttered from between clenched teeth.

“Astarion?” You say, as your eyes adjust to the moonlight, just enough to see him scuttling backwards into the dirt.

“Oh! Hello, didn’t see you there,” he responds glibly, rubbing at the spot he was swatted.

“I didn’t see _you_ there either. What were you doing?”

“Nothing. You had…mosquitos on you. Nasty things. I, being a historically selfless chap, was trying to rid you of them. Job well done, back to bed with me.”

Something itches just behind your eye. The tadpole seems to feed on the normal, non-parasitic parts of your brain that can detect deception. It wriggles, begging you to reach out your fingers and make it corporeal.

_Don’t trust him. See for yourself._

You let the tadpole win this time. It latches onto you and reaches out to Astarion—and the tadpole’s little sibling in his head. You can feel a tug, resistance, as he tries to stop you from entering, but he’s not as strong willed as Shadowheart or Gale. Quite the contrary, the proverbial door is almost wide open.

You find yourself in a bog, standing ankle-deep in black muck. Heavy, odious clouds of miasma lay just atop the slime, slithering and circling around you. You cannot move, but you don’t have to. You can see everything.

There stands Astarion, looking up at the looming trees in despair, desperate for a way to escape this place. You are not sure what he is scared of, but you can feel his fear. Animalistic and primal, the fear of prey being cornered by a predator. A voice echoes throughout the bog, and you understand the fear as if it were your own. 

“First, thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures.”

Astarion spins around as fast as he can, his own legs stuck in the mud and grime too. Not that there’s anywhere to go, with the trees like prison bars and the darkness enveloping.

“I-I know Master, and I haven’t! Not once.”

The voice does not acknowledge his pleading. Instead, it continues: “Second, thou shalt obey me in all things.”

Astarion doesn’t reply to this one, his eyes simply dart left and right, still hungry and desperate for an escape. 

“Third,” the voice says, booming all around you. “Thou shalt not leave my side unless directed.”

“Yes…yes, I mean, I was right on my way back to you, after having escaped that wretched ship—“

“Astarion,” the same voice says, suddenly closer and less omnipotent. You can see the form of a man standing several paces in front of Astarion, little more than a black shadow with gleaming red coals for eyes. Not unlike a dying campfire. Not unlike where Astarion’s gaze might have laid. “How quickly you forget.”

“I haven’t—“

“Fourth,” the voice booms, almost ear-splittingly loud. It turns your blood to ice. “Thou shalt know that thou art mine.”

You feel a rush of shame, not your own, but real nonetheless. Shame, and hate, and fear, all bubbling up inside of you, uncontrolled and ferocious. And something else, something foreign to you but not at all unfamiliar to Astarion, as his feelings become your own.

Hunger.

Not for food. Not for sustenance. But something deeper…darker…

You jerk awake as though having fallen and just hit ground. You see through Astarion’s eyes now, no longer an observer in his dream, but a passenger to his own conscious. He jumps to his feet in a fit of anxiety, nearly toppling over from the momentum.

“I have to get back,” Astarion’s frantic thoughts echo in your own mind. “He must know where I am…he must be on his way already…”

But there is a break in the fear. A subtle understanding, a gentle connection of neurons. Cazador—the man in the dream, you presume—even if he knew where Astarion was, could he do anything? He can’t walk in the sun, he doesn’t have the powers that the illithid has granted. Perhaps there is a chance. Perhaps there is an avenue for _escape._ Real escape. Real freedom.

_Thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures._

Astarion’s eyes turn to you, laying on your bedroll with your back to him. He cocks his head and sneaks towards you, almost in a saunter. Like a snake, a rat, a creature of the night. And the hunger returns.

Not for food. Not for blood.

For control.

Your connection with Astarion’s tadpole breaks, and you both recoil as if letting go of a taut rope at the same time. Astarion presses the heels of his palms to his forehead, moaning.

“You were in there for a _long time_ , you whelp. Don’t you know that…shit…hurts?”

You rub your own head. “I feel that I deserved the privilege after you tried to eat me.”

“I wasn’t going to _eat_ you. Just a taste. A nibble. I just…needed to see.”

“To see if your master still controlled you?”

Astarion sighs as if he wants thisconversation to be over. “I really hate that I don’t have secrets anymore.” He pauses, considering what you did see in his head, and then lets out an even more exasperated sigh. “Yes. I needed to see if I could disobey Cazador’s commands. If I could, then I had a better chance of…getting away.”

“You could have just asked,” you mutter.

“Oh that would have gone swimmingly, wouldn’t it? ‘Hello chum, I know we’ve only known each other for a few days but may I bite your neck? Don’t ask questions.’ Tch, please.”

“Then…why me?” you ask, gesturing to your other two companions still sleeping soundly. Much more soundly than you sleep, apparently.

Astarion’s eyelids fall over his eyes and he looks away. This part you didn’t see in the dream or in his mind. “No reason.”

“Come on.”

“Haven’t you pried enough out of my head for one night?”

You wait for him to do the work for you, but he remains tight lipped for now. He still avoids your gaze, and you can sense that same sensation that you felt when you were inside of his mind. The shame. Like a puppy that’s waiting to get kicked out onto the street at any moment. 

You roll up your sleeve and hold your arm out for him. He finally glances over, and his eyes widen with surprise.

“…what?”

“So, you’re a vampire, right?” you say, inching your wrist closer. “Then, if you think that it will help you break free of your master, you can have a _little._ And if you try to take anymore, I’ll smack you again.”

Astarion, having previously been kneeling, gets down on all fours and scuttles towards you, his eyes transfixed on your exposed skin. He gently takes your wrist in both his hands and brings it up closer to his face. You wonder how a vampire sees it; the network of veins and viscera, rich with blood. With energy. Life.

He glances up at you as if to make absolutely sure you’re alright with this, and then angles his head and sinks his fangs into your wrist. The pain is immediate and it sends a shockwave up your entire arm, but it soothes once he begins drinking in at a steady rhythm matching your heartbeat. Then, you begin to feel as if you’re part of a greater whole, as if there is some tangible connection between you and he. And it doesn’t feel like the tadpole.

“That’s enough,” you say, just as you feel yourself begin to get dizzy and complacent. Astarion doesn’t stop.

“That’s enough. Smacking imminent,” you repeat, harsher. With authority. This seems to snap him out of whatever trance he’s in, and he withdraws his mouth with a small gasp.

“I’m done, I’m done,” he said, blood still dripping from his lips. You put your other hand to the wound, but somehow the bleeding has already stopped. Only two small puncture marks are left to remind you of the feeling, of your blood rushing out of you and into another. The feeling of giving life and light to something dead.

It’s a little too pleasurable, you turn your attention away.

“Was it a success, then?” you ask.

Astarion still seems dazed, you would even venture to say post-coital if you weren’t currently pushing aside such thoughts. He takes a few moments to respond. “I think so.”

“Is your bond with your master broken now…?”

“Oh, no,” he laughs. “I’m not sure anything can permanently break the bond, except perhaps for a well aimed stake in the ribs. Or an axe through the neck. Or a wanton ray of sunlight through a window…” Astarion trails off dreamily.

“Then what was the point?”

He snaps back, yet again. “Well, since I was able to disobey one of Cazador’s commands, I might be able to disobey more. It won’t free me entirely, but…it’s a start.”

You watch him work his fingers around his lips and teeth absentmindedly, as though trying to get every last drop of blood onto his tongue. “What do I taste like?”

“What a fitting and yet disgustingly intimate question to ask.”

You wait for an answer, eyebrows raised.

“Like honey on a flower petal. The first dew of a spring morning. The finest wine shared between lovers.”

“Really?”

“No, you twit,” Astarion rolls his eyes. “Blood tastes like blood. Yours doesn’t taste different than any other. The only major difference being that…you’re like a rare steak, and for the past 200 years I’ve been eating rotten gristle that someone spit out and then pissed on.”

“Colorful.”

His frown turns into a smile at that. “I do thank you for this. You’ve helped me when…you didn’t have to.”

“The last thing I need is a vampire lord barging into camp to snatch you away,” you say. “You’re useful. And despite the general…dynamic the group has, we like having you around. If this…” you gesture to your wrist, his mouth. “Helps, then I’ll do it.”

Astarion’s eyes go wide, and his eyebrows turn upwards ever so slightly. The look of someone who isn’t used to kindness. Someone who expects you snatch back that gift the minute he steps out of line. You want to reach out and touch him, to reassure him that he’s _safe_ with you here, but he realizes his mistake and gets back to his feet.

“Well, thanks again. No more surreptitious visits from me, I promise. And I consider us even now.”

“Even for what?”

“I tried to attack you, you overstayed your welcome in my head. No hard feelings,” he says, and smirks down at you. A warning. “But if you do that again, I will gut you like a pig and leave the others to deal with the mess in the morning.”

“Noted.”

“Wonderful! Then goodnight, darling,” he says and walks over to his bedroll. However, he steps right over it, and continues forward, into the night. He disappears silently, swallowed up by the darkness and invisible to even the moon.

You watch him go, mostly to make sure he doesn’t return for seconds. But he has left you alone, and you lay back down on your bedroll. Your eyes close, and your hand links around your injured wrist.

You no longer dream of florid fields and gentle hands, but rather of misty bogs and trees with prying branches. And there, in the distance, a little further away now:

a pair of glowing red eyes.


	2. night 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> general emotional/mental abuse warning from here on out. also slight spoilers for descent into avernus, if...anyone cares hahaha. thank you very much for reading.

Astarion lies on his back, eyes closed and hands behind his head. The mid-morning sun beams down on him, and there is a small smile playing over his lips as you walk over to him. You watch him, considering how the sun might feel to someone who hasn’t felt it for centuries. Now that he has made it clear to you exactly what he is, he appears more brazen with enjoying the simple things that people like you get to enjoy everyday.

“You’re not asleep,” you say, nudging him with your foot.

“No,” he agrees, eyes still closed. “I didn’t sleep a wink all night. Too invigorated.”

“Because of the blood?”

Astarion’s eyes open and they roll over towards you, that infuriatingly smug smirk still on his face. “I feel—dare I say—alive, for the first time in a very long time. And since I don’t have to hide from you anymore, I was wondering…”

“Yes?” you ask, hands on your hips in anticipation of some surely ludicrous request.

“Well, to be a most effective traveling companion, I feel it only fair that I get to feed on…expendables. People we won’t miss. Bandits, baddies, all those little goblins running around. Who would miss them?”

“We don’t need you drawing attention to us anymore than we already are,” you say with a concerned frown. “Word of vampire victims would lead straight to us.”

Astarion sits up and whines. “ _Try_ to empathize with me. I’ve been essentially starving for the past two centuries, you give me a taste of the top shelf and now I have to go back to squirrels and rats? So cruel,” he says in a tone that implies actual cruelty, not the playful kind.

Your mind turns. Safety aside, the thought of Astarion feeding off of someone else, sharing that…inexplicable, otherworldly bond with him, the feeling of complete and total connection…makes your cheeks hot with a curious jealousy. But that’s a secret between you and the tadpole.

“Fine,” you give up. “But be conservative. Only as much as you need, and don’t make a show of it. No witnesses.”

His face lights up and he downright _grins_ at you, rows of fangs appearing beneath curled lips. You fight the urge to smile back. It bothers you how infectious that genuine smile is. But he only lets you see a flash.

“I will exercise the utmost caution,” he assures you and gets to his feet. “Now, shall we help pack up? Wyll is staring at us like we’re children refusing to do chores.” Astarion cocks a half smile at you, and then turns and walks away. 

You glance at the ground before following him to help the others. Your hand finds your wrist again. It aches.

That night, after a particularly vicious day of battling, everyone seems exhausted and spirited in equal measure. Drinks have been poured, and laughter fills the air. You feel a blanket of calm envelope you. It’s not perfect, but it’s the closest feeling to a home that you’ve felt in quite a while.

Astarion even makes an effort to socialize a little bit, though he is acutely aware of the new sideways glances in his direction. Lae’zel made a show of pulling the padding of her armor up over the sides of her neck, and Wyll’s hand has been settled on his scabbard all day. You’ve noticed as well, and who could blame them? They don’t even know that you were visited by fangs just the night before.

And they don’t need to know. Not right now.

As the night settles and conversation lowers to drunken, giggling mutters, you notice that Astarion has gone missing. You look all around camp for him, but can’t see him anywhere in the glow of the campfire. 

You get up from the group, none of whom make a fuss about you leaving, and begin searching the perimeter for him. It’s hard to see in the dark, but the moon is bright as always, and the stars dance on the horizon like fireflies.

You find him not too far off, perched on the edge of a slope that leads down into the forest. He is only a silhouette against the sky, but you can tell he has his back to you, and his arms folded in front of him. Head slightly bowed, contemplative. Lonely?

“Are you alright?” you ask, without otherwise announcing your presence.

He is not surprised. “I’m fine,” he replies. “Lots to think about, hmm?”

“I suppose a lot has happened to you in the past few days. A lot of changes,” you step closer until your eyes adjust to the dark, and you can see his face better. “It must be a lot to handle.”

“I was truly happy last night, so you know,” he says offhandedly. “Of course it felt _good_ , but it was also nice to feel that sort of…connection with another person.” He struggles to get the words out, as though they are barbs in his mouth.

“The connection with the…blood? When you fed?” you ask, confused.

“No, not that,” he says and turns to you. “The…the normal kind of connection.”

You furrow your brow.

“I—“ Astarion flusters and waves his hands. “Look, I can’t say it. Why don’t you…” he gestures towards his temple.

“The tadpole? You said you would gut me like a pig. Is this a test?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “That was only without consent, I am inviting you in this time. And an invitation means a lot coming from me, as I’m sure you can guess.”

You pause, checking for any tiny hints of deceit on his face. Any keen, dangerous eyes or the tips of fangs, ready to lash out at you should you fail his test of loyalty. But there are none. As far as you can tell, this is how he wants to show you.

You ultimately nod, and then close your eyes and let the tadpole have its fill. It wriggles and undulates behind your eye, eager to dig deeper and deeper into Astarion’s memories. You allow it, feeling his mind open itself to you completely.

You find yourself in a memory with no material form. You know several things about the situation you are now in, granted to you by Astarion’s subsconscious. You are at what was once the home of the Szarr family, many centuries ago, though since then it has been abandoned and turned into the city’s graveyard where the wealthiest nobles rest. It’s the perfect place for a vampire clan, guaranteeing that the living dare not tread on its grounds.

The sprawling mansion, lush yet derelict, is Cazador’s domain now. You find yourself slowly becoming more present into the situation; things appear less hazy, less blurred through the fog of time. You realize that you are now looking at the scene through Astarion’s eyes, just as he remembered it. Just as he felt it.

You—Astarion, there really is no boundary between the two of you anymore—have just returned from an unsuccessful night of hunting, and your heart is throbbing in your chest. You know that you must face your master with your humiliation, your failure, and you know that he will hear the pounding and he will know what you have done. You can never hide anything from him. He always knows.

You walk down the hall, hands balled into fists at your sides, back straight and pace brisk. You will be brave this time, you tell yourself. You will not be scared. You will not scream, no matter how horrific the punishment is. You did something selfless, for once in your useless life, and Cazador can’t take that from you.

You were in the Upper City, your normal hunting grounds, seducing young nobles and taking them back to Tumbledown for what was promised to be a raucous night of revelry. But that’s never how it ended. It always ended with them on Cazador’s table, bleeding out into goblets that only he and his inner circle are allowed to feast upon. Once he let you lick the dried flakes of human blood off his fingers, which was not even the most degrading thing you were subjected to that month.

So, the rule is to not get attached. Don’t look in their eyes too deeply, don’t let them tell you about their family or friends, and _never_ let them tell you they love you. They’re just food for Cazador, a payment you make in exchange for several hours of torture-free peace. Maybe a rabbit instead of a rat for dinner, if Master is feeling _particularly_ kind.

But on this night, this boy…something came over you. He had the kindest eyes you’d ever seen on a noble. He was shy, quiet, unsure of himself. It was his first night out on the town doing something like this, and you could smell that innocence on him like perfume. It was intoxicating and almost made you gasp for air. 

So you approached him. Talked with him. He was not an easy egg to crack. He was careful and deliberate, and he seemed to yearn for conversation more than the imminent hookup. And that’s what made it harder.

You broke all the rules. You stared into his deep brown eyes, so wide and so trusting. You let him speak extensively about his home life. His mother and father cared about him deeply, but he had few friends. He had hoped that _you_ might be his friend. And you didn’t say no, and that was when you knew you were doomed.

He didn’t say the dreaded word, but you could tell that he felt something for you. You placed your hand on his, both of you tucked away in the corner of some bougie, smoke-filled lounge, and no one could see you. He laughed and commented on how cold your hands were. You said nothing.

You got as far as Cliffgate before you couldn’t take it anymore. You turned to the boy and told him that this was a mistake, that he should just go back home. He was devastated, if only he knew what sort of torture you were saving him from. He asked if he did anything wrong, and you took his hands in yours. It took everything in you not to kiss the soft skin on top of his veins, to give into the _want_ of feeding on him, even if you knew you ultimately couldn’t. 

You squeezed his hands and told him to leave. He turned his head away, and walked back home.

He was gone. He was safe.

You are not.

You approach Cazador’s chambers, empty-handed. Your heart feels like church bells announcing your arrival, loud and resonant. Electricity runs through your body to your fingertips, as you anticipate what punishment awaits you. But as you open the great oak doors, knowing that your master is waiting for you inside, you realize how foolish you were. Cazador is, if nothing else, enterprising in his cruelty. And the agony that awaits you is one you’ve never felt before.

You see Cazador sitting on his throne, the usual spot where you lay your offerings before him. But there is already an offering there. Still alive, still trembling with fear.

You notice his soft, warm skin. His quiet, shy demeanor. His brown eyes, so _trusting._

“Did you think I wasn’t watching, boy?” Your master smiles and runs a hand through the young noble’s hair. “Did you think I wouldn’t know?”

You immediately fall to your knees in subservience. You stare at the floor, and your mouth is dry. “M-Master, it’s not what you think. I merely considered this creature to be…inadequate for your standards.”

“Oh, Astarion,” your master drones, and you know you’re in deep shit now. He almost never utters your actual name. You don’t look up, but you can hear the sound of his fingers still running through the boy’s hair, lovingly, tenderly. The way _you_ wanted to touch him. “How prudent of you, such a good pet. Then I suppose you won’t mind disposing of this refuse for me.”

You look up now. “What?”

Cazador gestures to the noble, who is now comprehending what position he is in. “You’re correct, it is ill-suited to my tastes. _So get rid of it._ ”

You rise to your feet slowly, against your will. The invisible contract between you and your master forces you to. The weightless chain around your neck draws you forward, step by step, towards the noble boy. Cazador watches with subtle glee, knowing exactly what’s going on in your head. He knows you want to turn your fangs onto him instead, to rip out his throat and flay his ribs and bathe in his gore. He knows you want to grab the noble boy and run away, out of the graveyard, out of Tumbledown, out of Baldur’s Gate for good.

He knows. And he won’t let you.

You stand in front of the boy now, knowing what you must do. Your master commands it. There is no other option. There is no escape. That horrid truth washes over you like cold water and you drown in it.

_There is no escape._

“Oh, and boy,” your master says to you. “Make it _hurt_.”

You—the real you, the one half of the connection—feels yourself begin to pull away from this memory. But part of Astarion’s mind still seeps into yours. It’s a horrid feeling, the kind of memory that makes your stomach sick with acid.

You don’t remember the boy’s name. You don’t remember his face. Master didn’t let you taste one drop, of course, so you’d never remember any part of him at all.

A shockwave runs through both you and Astarion, and you feel as though the pressure in your head might make you faint. You are back at the edge of the forest, at night, some 150 years into the future. 

Astarion is gasping for air, and looks as if the whole experience has left him physically and mentally battered. Even all that was easier than just _saying it?_

“I see…” you said as you regain your wits, your sense of self. It’s odd, being ‘Astarion’ for so long, and now back to being yourself. Like waking up suddenly from a very realistic dream. “You were punished for ever…daring to connect to anyone.”

“Naturally,” Astarion mumbles. “A good slave is always alone. No tethers to this world,” he laughs dryly, his usual snark inching back into place. “Lest we unionize.”

“I’m sorry,” is all you can say.

Astarion swivels towards you and locks eyes. They are always sharp as a knife’s edge, you realize. Keen and quick, boring into you. He doesn’t even need to use the tadpole to see straight into you. 

“I only made such a mistake once,” he says. “Even to show kindness, mercy to someone, was grounds for a flaying. Or worse.”

Previously, you would have wondered what could be worse than a flaying. But now you know.

“He might know,” Astarion continues, eyes growing a little wider and more serious. “He might know what I’m doing right now. Every night I see him in my dreams, _telling_ me that he knows. And that every person I know will be collateral.”

“Dreams are just dreams,” you say, thinking of that one weird sexy person in the robe that visits you every night. “They’re not real. And Cazador is not here, not tonight. So you’re safe.” You pause. Your voice diminishes an octave. “You’re safe with me.”

“Oh aren’t you sweet,” he chortles, and sidles up closer to you. You do not turn away. “All this to say that I…must make another request of you.”

“I suppose it’s only fair to ask for more blood, after I plundered your mind.”

“Well I’m certainly going to take you up on that later, but that’s not what I was going to ask.”

You blink in surprise. “Then, what?”

Astarion takes your hands in his. They are as cold as you recall hearing in his memory. He smiles down at them fondly, and rubs his thumbs gently on the soft part between your fingers. The lovingness of the gesture makes you weak, and you feel a chill run through your nerves. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he says, in a voice barely above a whisper. There is a silence that settles between the two of you, and you are content there. Just like that.


	3. night 3

As the days wear on, you see less and less of Astarion. He’s still there in the background of course, always ready with a timely quip, and he fights just as well. He still sleeps—meditates, whatever—as far as you can see. But he’s quiet, less jovial, and prefers to keep his conversations short and business-like. Every attempt to speak with him privately has failed, as he brushes you off or turns his attention back to the others. After a while, you begin to notice why.

Even in battle, Astarion has been drinking less and less…thinking blood. He prefers to wait until nighttime, when he will slink off into the brush to eat a rodent or a feral cat, when just a few days ago he was feasting on goblins, and even a drow or two. 

One night, after you secretly watch him actually scale a tree to reach a bird’s nest, you wait for him on the path back to camp, far away where no one will hear you.

“Can I help you with something?” Astarion asks, obviously caught off guard that you’ve intercepted him.

“I’m just concerned about you,” you say. “You’ve been cagey and aren’t drinking much blood. Are you sick?”

“I’m on a diet,” he replies dryly.

“Is the diet supposed to make you funnier too?”

Astarion digests the retort, and then decides to shift gears. “No need to worry about me. I’m just trying to be _conservative,”_ he waggles his fingers at the word, “like you said.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He clearly didn’t expect you to be so blunt about it. “Well then why don’t you crawl inside my head and see? Oh, right, your tadpole is all tuckered out from using it on that gnome earlier. I _did_ notice.”

“Can’t you just use your words like a normal person?”

“Oh it’s finally happening, we’re bickering like an old married couple, I love it,” he chuckles and takes the opportunity to try and slide past you. You step in front of him, blocking his path, and meet his eyes without wavering.

“Why have you stopped drinking blood?”

A look of disgust crosses his face. “Why does it concern you? Do I point out every one of your dietary peculiarities? Why did you eat a quarter of that cheese wheel today? You looked shameless.”

“Because you’re a vampire—“

“Spawn.”

“…a vampire spawn. It’s a bit different.”

Astarion puts his hands on his hips and looks past you, towards the horizon, then up at a tree, then at the ground, trying to measure out the repercussions of telling you what he’s about to tell you. But he relents after his eyes drift back to your face.

“My dreams are different,” he says through gritted teeth. “When I drink blood. Real blood, not animal swill.”

“Isn’t that a good thing? Your nightmares are awful.”

He laughs spitefully, at himself. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? Yes, they are. Horrendous. But…” he goes quiet. “The link between Cazador and I is still very real. Tangible. I can _feel_ it all the time. Even though I can feed freely now, I still hear his voice in the back of my head. His…hand under my chin…” he spits the words out of his mouth.

“I haven’t heard his voice or seen his face in weeks now…the longest since I’ve known him,” he continued. “Except in my dreams. In my nightmares he appears as…how I really see him. A monster. Tormentor. But when I drink blood, the dreams…change.”

“Are they pleasant?” you ask, thinking of your own dreams.

Astarion chews on the inside of his lip. “I believe that Cazador has shown me enough scraps of mercy in my servitude to him that part of me…wants to go back. That invisible tether just _tugs_ at me and I feel like it would be easier to allow it to lead me. And in my dreams I think…maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. 200 years is nothing,” he voice drops again. “Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.”

“That’s just the tadpole,” you urge. “It shows you what you…want to see.”

“Well! Tremendous news, I hate myself more than I ever thought possible.”

The glibness of what, to you, feels like an awfully huge confession, tugs at your heart. You can’t imagine the turmoil going on inside of him, what 200 years of torment does to a person. And what parts of Astarion’s brain have been molded by the experience are appealing to the tadpole.

“If the tadpole thinks you want to see that,” you say with unsteady confidence. “Then we’ll change it. We’ll give it something else to eat.”

He softens, almost imperceptibly. “Oh? Interesting.”

You grab him by the wrist and drag him back off into the darkness. He lets you do it, not resisting at all, though you can tell he’s not taking this as seriously as you. You lead him to a clearing in the nearby forest; a small thicket of trees. It’s silent and dark as a cool breeze drifts through the bushes and meets the two of you.

You stand in front of him, hands at your sides. You know you look stiff and awkward, but it matches the stiff awkwardness that is about to come out of your mouth.

“Ever since that night where I let you have my blood, my wrist has hurt.”

“…still? Is it infected? Nothing from me, I assure you. I’m clean as a whistle,” Astarion says, mumbling that last bit into his hand.

“Not like that,” you shake your head. “It aches. Like an empty stomach.” You run your fingers over the bite marks, which have entirely healed by now, save only for two small light bumps.

“Ahh, that’s normal,” he says, almost academically. “There is a…bonding between a vampire and their prey that occurs. Even for a spawn. Which is why I usually don’t let them live…makes it awkward.”

“I felt it,” you say. “That bond. I felt it again the last time you let me into your memory. And even when you…when you just held my hands. There _is_ a bond there, vampire related or not. And you must have the same bond with Cazador.”

He says nothing.

“So let me…let me be the more important bond,” you say, finally. You feel nearly out of breath having gotten that out.

Astarion only stares, blank, but his face curls into a soft smile. Not guarded or sadistic like the smiles you’ve seen before, but genuine. Gentle. He does have that side to him.

“You know, that night, you were right. There _was_ a particular reason I chose you, out of all the others,” he says and steps closer to you. You let him. With every step he takes, you take one back, until you feel your body press against a tree. And you have nowhere else to go. Astarion meets your eyes, just inches from your face.

“Even without having touched you, I could tell that you were the warmest.”

You immediately feel heat rising to your face. He was right after all. As though sensing the change in temperature, Astarion presses himself to you, one hand anchored to the tree next to your head, the other beginning to explore the soft part of your side. His hand continues upward, dancing over every rib and pressing firm into your chest, where you can feel your heart pounding like a war drum. He leaves it there for a few moments, drinking in the feeling. The expectation, the excitement, the sound of your blood rushing through your body. You. All of you.

His hand goes even further up, to the side of your neck, where your pulse is practically hammering against your skin. You take in a quick breath, but the cold air doesn’t cool you down at all. He’s too close. Desperately so, and you allow him.

He pushes down the edge of your collar. Your hands, which have been kept tightly at your sides, have found their way to Astarion’s shoulders, and are now flung over them, and linked around the nape of his neck. Your fingers work their way through his hair. It’s soft, you hadn’t noticed.

At the sight of your exposed neck, so close and flushed and pulsating wildly, Astarion lets out a contented sigh that turns into a growl. Maybe. You can’t hear very well with the cacophony of blood in your ears. But you think you heard a growl. The blood rushes…elsewhere…and you pull him closer in.

You’re just as desperate as he is.

“It’s okay,” you say through a gasp. “Take as much as you need. Just leave…a little for me.”

Astarion’s hand moves from the tree trunk to your shoulder, pinning you in place. Oh, he’s stronger than you imagined. This makes you grind your hips up against him. You try not to whimper. This vampire just _growled_ centimeters from your carotid artery. It unlocked some primal, animal fear in you. This is how your ancestors survived. You will not whimper.

You whimper a little.

Suddenly, both of his hands suddenly go to your sides, feeling you up and down. His lips remain on your neck, leaving a trail of kisses all over. You brace for the feeling of fangs in your flesh, but it doesn’t come.

“I’m a bit nervous,” he whispers breathily. “I like you. And restraint isn’t in my vocabulary.”

“Then perhaps I should give you the definition,” you grumble. “I trust you have _enough_ restraint to keep me alive.”

“Trust…” he says, and pulls his head back to look at you. “Really?”

“…I do,” you reply. “We have a bond.”

Astarion does something strange, just then. His entire life as a vampire spawn has been dictated by the hunger. His master starved him of it, made him a slave to it as much as anything else. His unquenchable thirst for blood has driven him, and you, to the spot where you both are now. And you have given it to him. He has everything he has wanted right in front of him. And he doesn’t choose it.

He chooses you instead.

Astarion presses his lips to yours, and your heart flutters so intensely that you fear you might pass out. You feel fangs on the inside of your lips, your tongue runs over them. They’re dangerous, but not right now, but the feeling still excites you. Your hands, still around his neck, pull his head in closer, deepening the kiss. Even without the ineffable connection between a vampire and its victim, you feel as though you both are one. Not like in his memories either, but you are both just one moment in time. You are a phenomenon. Entwined there, you share the same warmth. 

The same light.

After what feels like a precious eternity, Astarion pulls away. Your head buzzes and you feel drunk. He must find this endearing, because he smiles and laughs.

“You’re right, darling. We do.”

You want to pull him back in for another kiss, or to smile and laugh along with him, but you suddenly feel something come over you. An urgency, something that suddenly feels like life or death. Your whole body feels like it’s on fire, every part of it. You no longer want it.

You _need_ it.

“Look, I would love to talk more, but I’m going insane. If you don’t bite me, I’m going to throw you on the ground and rip _your_ throat out.”

Astarion nearly snorts and looks at you with a level of confusion that suggests he knows more than you do. “That’s _odd._ First I can walk in the sun, then I can enter homes, and now _you’re_ acting like a vampire’s thrall. Curiouser and curiouser.”

“No, I’m just…I just… _want you._ Stop teasing me, you bastard,” you snap at him, again feeling almost possessed by your desperation. Pure carnal desire.

“Ah, you’re incorrigible. I love that in a meal,” Astarion grins and relocates his mouth back to your neck. That little dose of degradation makes you downright moan, and your ancestors frown upon you.

He takes in one deep, slow breath in, and then you feel his lips spread against your skin. You clutch at his neck and his hair as you hold your breath, bracing for the pain. And yet you want it. You have given up trying to convince yourself that you don’t. Maybe Astarion is right, and the tadpole granted him power over you that is usually only afforded to true vampires. But it doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, you want it. And you love it.

You love him.

That is the last thought you have before the pain washes over you. It hits you like a knife; sudden and intense. Immediately, it’s already different than the first time. There is nowhere for you to go, nowhere to run, he has you trapped. Likewise, since he’s not trying to keep quiet around sleeping companions, Astarion tears into your neck _viciously._

His teeth break through your skin and into your flesh, and the feeling of him hungrily drinking you in is horrifying and thrilling. The perfect combination. If you hadn’t felt drunk before, you _certainly_ do now. 

And, unlike before, he shows no sign of stopping.

You feel that same connection between the two of you tighten and shorten, until it no longer feels like there’s any distance between the two of you at all. Mentally, physically, existentially perhaps. Your warmth, the warmth he so desperately needs that has been kept from him for two centuries, floods out of you and into him. You can feel it going to _his_ heart, running through his veins, filling him with light and life.

You’re dizzy. The pain is receding. You know that you have to tell him to stop, that he definitely will not stop on his own, but wouldn’t that be enough? To give him all of you, so that he can live? So that he can carry that light with him forever? You’d gladly give everything you have to him.

Just as the edges of your vision begin to go black, you hear a thunderclap in your head. Suddenly, without warning or consent, you leave your body. You briefly wonder if you actually died, and that feeling was your soul getting catapulted to the next plane of existence. But your clarity returns, and you realize that the tadpole would not let that happen. It would not let you die, not like this.

You are back in Astarion’s memory. This time, it’s ragged and frantic, shown only in vignettes. It’s a hazy memory, one that happened long ago, but it has endured in his mind all this time. He cannot escape it. It is the impetus, the root.

You are in Astarion’s body. The entire thing hurts, having been battered and beaten. You are weak, extremely weak. You can barely move, barely speak. Your vision is blurry. Your blood is in the mouth of the man before you. He is obscured by the darkness, but his red eyes penetrate straight through to you.

“You want it, don’t you?”

“Yes,” is what you have to say. You don’t, but you do. Part of you wants it. You’re really too weak to elucidate on the particulars.

“You are mine, are you not?”

“…yes,” you repeat yourself. You know you want to live, obviously. That part of yourself you can trust. But the new part, the part that comes with the absence of the life he has sucked out of you, the part that reminds you that this man is _all you have_ …you can’t trust.

But you have to.

Cazador Szarr is yours.

And you are his.

Astarion breaks free of your neck. You are decidedly not dead, you realize, as fresh pain rushes back into your body. You take a few moments to gather yourself as much as you can, seeing as you are barely conscious.

“Fuck! Bollocks,” Astarion hisses, fingers at his lips. He has stepped back from you several paces, his head turned to the side to not look at you. He scowls, blood smeared all down his face. He is shaking.

Your hand goes to your neck to stem the bleeding. “That wasn’t me,” you slur.

“I know it wasn’t,” he says, and swallows dry despite the blood still slick in his mouth. “Did you see that? All of that?”

“Uh huh.”

He curses again, and then returns to you. He takes your jawline in his hands, cradling it firmly but gently enough. He looks serious. You struggle to comprehend the gesture. Everything is sort of funny.

“I’m not like him,” Astarion whispers. “I’m not him.” 

“I know you’re not,” you assure him. It takes a lot of effort to speak.

“And I would never do that to you.”

“Huh? I know,” you nod. The frenzied passion that came over you earlier has lifted, leaving you empty and confused. Perhaps Astarion’s thrall theory was right. You _were_ ready to give him your entire self. You were ready to die for him.

You can see why Astarion would have such dreams of Cazador.

Your answer soothes him, and his shoulders relax. He pulls you into an embrace, and you feel a light thump coming from his chest. You wonder if it’s your pulse. The sound of your heart. But you’re sleepy and don’t think on it any longer.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you an apple. Something sweet.”

He takes your hand this time, and he is the one that leads you back to camp. You eat some fruit, but fall asleep before you can finish it. The last feeling you recall is Astarion settling in behind you, and wrapping his arms around you. You close your eyes and feel peaceful enshrouded in him.

He’s warmer than you remember.

The next morning, you awake late. The others grill Astarion about what happened last night, and you decide to be honest about it. They grill him some more, but it’s good natured. You’re alive, and that’s evidence enough for them that Astarion _can_ control himself. Shadowheart even called you “glowing”, but you aren’t sure if that was sarcasm or not.

“Was that sarcasm?”

“Yes, dear,” Astarion patronizes. “You’re dreadfully peaky.”

You don’t doubt it. Your neck is predictably sore, and you still feel weak and unsure on your feet. Wyll recommends a day spent at camp, maybe catching up on some reading or pursuing hobbies (met with groans from everyone else), but it sounds good to you. You just want to nap.

“That won’t happen again, by the way,” Astarion tells you, still sitting beside you on your bedroll. “I’ll never get…that close again. I’ll be fine with whatever I can get.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he smiles. “As I said, I _like_ you. I don’t want you to get roughed up too much. And besides,” his smile deepens. “I had a dream last night.”

“A dream? Not a nightmare?”

“A dream,” he affirms. “A dream in a bog. Mist and snakes.”

“I saw that one,” you frown. “That’s a nightmare.”

“But it wasn’t,” Astarion looks at you with glee. Delight. As though a tremendous weight was off his shoulders. “I saw two red eyes, glowing in the dark. Several paces in front of me. Peering at me through the fetor.”

You are quiet. You’ve seen those eyes for yourself.

“And then…” he looks up at the sky, clear and blue. Then to you, pale and sickly, but he looks at you like you’re a miracle.

“And then?”

Astarion sighs. Happy. Content. Full of light.

“And then they closed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, comments, kudos, bookmarks, i really appreciate all of it! hope you enjoyed. let's hear it for wingman tadpoles.


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